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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27066931">baby, i'm not moving on</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/natromanoffs/pseuds/natromanoffs'>natromanoffs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:07:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,088</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27066931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/natromanoffs/pseuds/natromanoffs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Loving Hannah has always been enough.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hannah Grose/Owen Sharma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>baby, i'm not moving on</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i just finished this show and i definitely have Mixed Feelings about it that i could rant about for hours... but i love these two so much and am feeling very heartbroken so here's this</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Hannah’s dead. She’s dead, and it’s the worst pain Owen’s ever gone through.
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Of course, losing his mother was terrible and heartbreaking but he saw it coming, saw it looming on the horizon for years now. She was losing herself, her memories, bits and pieces of the old her, she was fading, and then she was gone. And that’s just life and death, isn’t it? Giving and then taking, away and away until there’s nothing left. But it was natural, losing his mother. He expected to lose her at some point, knew that point was coming sooner rather than later when her mind grew blurred. He grieved and he mourned but he also felt relieved, in a terribly guilt-stricken unspeakable kind of way. Terrible as it was, that was life for you. You’re born and you love your parents and you grow up and you lose your parents.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>But, Hannah — she was never supposed to die. Not like this, not so young, not before she told him she loved him. Such a fucking tragedy, he thinks, for the woman he loves not to admit to it until after she’s gone, for her to never tell him that’s how she felt. He supposes he’s never said it outright either, but he’s called her “love” one too many times for her not to know, has said her name with a gentle reverence often enough that everyone seems to pick up on how he feels.</p><p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>She had someone before. Sam, a husband, a terrible man who left her feeling empty and broken beyond repair. Sam cheating, Sam leaving, it was one of the most painful things she’d ever felt. She hadn’t explicitly said as much, but it was clear from the little comments she’d make about him from time to time, the way her voice would grow tight whenever she said his name and the way her shoulders would seize up whenever someone brought him up when she wasn’t expecting it.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Given all that, he hadn’t expected her to open her heart so easily. Even when he realized the extent of his feelings for her, he’d known that she might never be able to reciprocate.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Still, he’d touch her arm and dream up visions of Paris where they’d walk down the street hand in hand. He’d tell joke upon joke and pun piled on pun until he’d draw out a smile. He learned what foods she liked in which moods, and cooked accordingly. He hadn’t known if she’d ever fully reciprocate his feelings, but he hadn’t quite cared. It’d been enough just to love her, to feel himself buoyed when she walked into a room, to feel his heart skip a beat when she leaned in close to whisper something in his ear. He loved her in a way that was pure, simple, entirely uncomplicated. He loved her, and he was better for it. He walked a little lighter and smiled a little brighter, and when things went wrong he found his way to her like a magnet, and sitting beside her always made the hard times seem less hard.</p><p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>It had been enough. He had loved her, and would’ve continued to do so whether or not she felt a similar affection. But she <i>had</i>. She <i>had</i> loved him back, but it was too late.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>A tragedy.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>He’d seen her, at the bottom of the well. Clothed in red, neck bent, head split. She was alone.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>She’d died alone, and that was one of the worst parts. What he wouldn’t give to have been with her when it happened, to have comforted her, to have provided companionship, anything just so she wouldn’t have been alone. She was the love of his life, and she’d died alone at the bottom of the well, and it was days before he could eat again.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>He’d sat with her on the way to the coroner’s. He hadn’t been able to be there with her when she’d died, so being with her then was the least he could do. He’d cleaned her body, gently and tearfully and stricken with a grief he couldn’t even begin to describe.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>He’d gone to the funeral, watched them lower her body into the ground. He’d felt sort of numb, then, felt separated from reality. How could life go on if she wasn’t there to live it?</p><p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>But it did go on. Years passed, and he healed. The pain never went away, but he grew used to it, and it sat right beside fondness and love and memory. He opened a restaurant like he’d always wanted, hung up a picture of her so anyone who dined there would see her, would know that the woman in the picture on the wall was a part of this place.</p><p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>She’d been alive, and he’d loved her, and that had been enough. And she had loved him back. And that was enough. He knew he’d never fall in love with anyone else, never had the possibility cross his mind.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Hannah was the love of his life, <i>is</i> the love of his life. Present tense, because he loves her now, currently, actively, running through everything he does. She’s the love of his life and he’s still loving her. She’s not here to reciprocate, can’t laugh at his terrible puns or offer a comforting hand when it all seems too much to bear. Still, he loves her. Still, he’s better for it. Still, the act of loving her makes him smile a little more, a little softer, makes him lose himself in happy memories and leads him to create new ones, pushes him to keep going on to find joy in the living.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>She’s running through him, through his life. She may be dead, but she’s the furthest thing from gone. She lives in him, in this restaurant, in every dish he cooks.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>He goes on, and she’s still with him. He cooks the dishes she loved so much, and looks up at the picture on the wall. There she is, cheering him on. That’s reason enough to get out of bed every morning. He finds comfort in the little things — he’ll go on a walk and notice the flowers she always thought smelled nice, and he’ll spend a half hour breathing in their scent. He’ll dream about her bright laugh and the sparkle in her eyes and he’ll think: okay. Life’s worth living if just for these moments, if just for these pieces of her he has left.&lt;</p><p><br/>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Hannah’s dead. But for her, he’ll live.</p>
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